


Things That We Should Say

by northunderland



Category: 18th Century CE RPF
Genre: 1790s, F/M, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Kościuszko Uprising, Light Angst, Limerence, Possibly Unrequited Love, Romantic Tension, kosciuszko is one lonely dude, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-19
Updated: 2021-01-19
Packaged: 2021-03-17 12:41:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28849227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/northunderland/pseuds/northunderland
Summary: 1794. Years after the American Revolution, Tadeusz Kościuszko tries his hand at rebellion. He also finds that a stranger is in the same shoes he found himself in long ago, and observes them from afar.Infatuation seemed to be a young man's preoccupation, and yet, here he was.
Relationships: Tadeusz Kościuszko/Original Female Character(s)
Kudos: 4





	1. March, 1794

**Author's Note:**

> Kościuszko's life is a lonely one, and true to his tragic nature, he gets a big ol' crush that may or may not end well. Really just an excuse to scribble out some angst, so enjoy.

_March, 1794._ _Kraków_.

It was late March when he took the oath - his country still emerging from the grips of winter - and to him it felt symbolic in a way. Emerging from the husk of what it had been for hundreds of years, his homeland would emerge reborn and made anew, shaped and molded by the ideals that had carried him away from home some twenty years before. His country had existed in a period of stasis, frozen in time, defined by long outdated rules and practices: the szlachta had hindered the Commonwealth long enough, and it needed to change. 

A lump formed in his throat when he thought of America and France, and the paths they had forged in the vast expanse that was the concept of a republic. A man of staunch republican values was he - and it made sense that Poland and Lithuania would take their rightful place as the third voyager into the political sea. He, like everyone else involved, felt unsure and unsteady. But appearances counted, and come what may, Tadeusz Kościuszko put on a brave face every morning as he led his country further and further towards a future nobody could quite predict. Rather appropriately he felt like a wayfarer, grasping his saber in his right hand, making the old nobleman’s salute and hearing his own words echo across a silent square. Make no mistake: there were people there, hundreds, if not _thousands,_ all watching him decree the Commonwealth a newly independent republic, freed from the shackles of not only the old monarchy, but its prospective conquerors watching intently from afar.

The crowd’s silence did not imply fear or unsteadiness, unlike the bubbling anxiety that secretly roiled him, but they waited with bated breath. Their king had capitulated to the tsarina two years before, but the people had not given up the hope that freedom still was a possibility. And here he was, declaring that the nation might live to see another day: what earnest, silent _joy_ he could see on the people’s faces, that had been latent underneath their visages for so long. _That_ was something he could keep striving for. The light, cool breeze of the spring felt strange to him, the afternoon sunlight seeping into his coat and through his clothes like a gentle warmth. It was a balmy day for the intermission between winter and spring, and it was as if the entire city of Kraków had come out of its wintry shell. 

He could’ve been singing, for all he knew. His words carried on the breeze like prose, floating through the crowd to meet every person’s ears. They must’ve felt that same bubbling sense of anticipation and excitement that he was feeling, married with the subtle anxiety that came with marching towards the unknown. He was surprised at how it felt, like the same butterflies he’d had as a young man confessing his love to a nobleman’s daughter. He wondered if he would be here, swearing his solemn duties as the leader of the insurrection, had Lord Sosnowski given him Ludwika’s hand. 

Finishing his decree, and making the promise to the sea of faces before him that he would uphold the ideas of liberty and justice, he found himself lingering on some faces he could recognize. Hugo Kołłątaj, the enlightened reformer, stood silently next to General Józef Wodzicki, who watched intently. Wodzicki had helped him cross the border into partitioned territory, and in gratitude Kościuszko had given him a sizable command in the insurrectionist army. Nearby he spotted Julian, his bright-eyed aide, whose shoulder-length blond hair fluttered gently in the cool breeze. 

As the final words of his oath and his holy promises lingered on the tip of his tongue, his eyes drifted a few meters to Julian’s left. There stood a woman, dressed rather simply with her hair pulled back from her determined face. A long scar graced the bridge of her nose, and he felt his own gaze settle on her eyes. She blended into the crowd, almost too well, and had it not been for the willpower he felt radiating from her he might not have noticed her at all.

In her eyes he saw himself. The same kind of relentless ardor, the zeal that he had been sanctified with upon arriving in America in 1776. Here was a stranger, standing only a few paces from his longtime friend, and yet she seemed familiar. 

Amidst all the unrecognizable faces, dotted with those that he knew, he felt anchored to her. Looking away, he turned towards the officers that flanked him and departed.

Later that night, over a shared dinner, he asked Julian if he had spoken to a woman with a scarred face at all. He said he hadn’t, but he’d keep an eye out for her in case. Sleep evaded him, in those late hours of the night. He attributed it to apprehension about the insurrection, trying to push the image of the stranger out of his mind.

The soldier’s training went surprisingly well, much to Kościuszko’s delight. The peasants, work-worn from years of toiling in fields, proved to be a hardy folk. Scythes became the weapon of choice for the farmer recruits, and the common man’s army was well organized and committed to the cause. He thought back to the days of the revolution in America, when he worked with a loosely organized fighting force of regulars and soldiers poorly equipped compared to their British opponents.

Remembering the sight of soldiers marching without shoes, their toes and fingers turned black from frostbite, the commander sent silent thanks to the families and workers throwing in their effort to supply the insurrection’s fighters. Soldiers and peasants fought alongside each other here, under the same sun, and the insurgents proved to be of tougher mettle than both Kościuszko and the Russians would have expected. Here were common men, fighting for what many hoped would become a common cause. At the moment, however, they were starkly outnumbered by the Russian invasion force coming in from the east. And unlike the Americans, Kościuszko noted darkly, they were not contending with one beast but three. Commands, shouted to the soldiers, rang across the field as Kościuszko oversaw his officers conducting drills. They were an earnest lot, and worked tirelessly under the springtime sun. Content with his observations, he dispatched advice to his officers, hoping that drawing upon his experiences with guerilla tactics in America would prove beneficial to the insurgents.

On his mare he galloped away at a gentle pace, towards the estate in which he was residing with Julian and some high ranking officers. The hills surrounding the training camps were marked with golden patchwork fields, and the estate itself sat in a glen surrounded by birch trees. Looking over the rolling hills as he made his way towards the estate, Kościuszko found his mind wandering from battle plans to his own home, which lay further east. It had been far too long since he had returned, he noted, as gentle melancholy settled in his heart. He found himself wondering if the prospect of raising a family was out of reach for his forty-eight year old self. It certainly seemed to be so.

Several weeks later, word had reached that insurgent forces had successfully repelled the Russian onslaught at Zamość, thanks to the quick thinking of the soldiers. The commander of the fortress, to Kościuszko’s dismay, had balked at the sight of the Russian advance and had fled the siege. A handful of officers and volunteer soldiers took matters into their own hands, devising traps and unorthodox tactics to fend off the enemy’s attacks. When the dust had settled, even the defenders were shocked to have survived. Another detail intrigued him, however. A lieutenant Jan Milewski, who had distinguished himself in the conflict, spoke briefly of another combatant over tea and coffee with the other officers.

While elated about the elevation of his own rank, Milewski had mentioned with a certain sense of peculiarity that this volunteer - he notably refrained from using the term “soldier” - had also distinguished themself by holding several invading infantrymen at bay who had scaled the fortress walls, and promptly forcing the siege ladder off the parapets with assistance. Julian inquired about the identity of the individual in question, and Jan Milewski gently chuckled, stating that underneath the uniform and dirt, he could’ve sworn he saw a woman. With a twinkle in his eye, Julian looked slyly at Kościuszko, who was on his third cup of coffee. Kościuszko smiled reservedly, but said nothing of it. To express a sudden interest beyond that of observing the novelty of it all seemed inappropriate. He had an army to focus on, a single individual could not occupy his thoughts for too long.


	2. April, 1794

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Being surrounded by friends and compatriots, even in times of joy, can make one feel especially lonely.

_April, 1794. Racławice._

Gunpowder smoke, dust, and the cries of men filled the air. Cacophonies of the whinnying of horses, shrieks of men, and the clash of steel rang through the air only to be blocked out periodically by the bangs of cannonfire. Kościuszko himself rode with the cavalry charge, bursting out of the trees like birds in flight, descending upon the Russian infantry’s flank and taking them completely by surprise. The insurgent cavalry had in that moment resembled the hussars of old, and the scythemen and infantry had been rallied by the sight. Slicing through a Russian horseman with his szabla, Kościuszko spurred his horse onward, shouting encouragement to his brave men to keep fighting. Atop the hill, in the distance, he saw a handful of peasants and volunteers picking off canonniers and smothering the lit charges, saving the bulk of the fighting force from being exposed to cannonfire. A few mounted officers flanked him for protection, and he motioned for them to speed up the slope towards the ragtag group of fighters defending the hilltop. With a wave of his hand, they set off under musket fire and the sounds of battle.

Sweat rolled down his forehead, and the scarlet tassels on his unbuttoned peasant robe fluttered as he ushered his mare up the hill, his eyes peeled for any enemy soldiers that might inhibit their aid. Ahead of him, a burly peasant fought back to back with a more lithe figure, who was clad in simple clothes worn from battle. The peasant leapt forwards and swiped his scythe at a Russian, and smothered the lit fuse of the cannon with his own red cap. The other fighter, clad in a navy blue jacket smeared with blood and dust, slashed an infantryman with a bayonet and knocked another to the ground. Suddenly, he saw that as the two fighters withdrew from each other, a Russian footman had come up behind the second soldier. Poised to strike, the Russian raised his sword arm and Kościuszko shouted a warning to look out, his voice already hoarse from roaring commands.

The figure in blue whipped around shockingly fast, and immediately kicked the Russian in the gut before plunging the bayonet deep into his dark green uniform, blood blossoming from the wound. Kościuszko’s heart rose into his throat, his dark blue eyes growing wide with shock. The figure’s light brown hair was collected behind her head, and as she looked up at him he saw the same scar, and the same blue grey eyes. It was the woman from before, and although her face was wild with adrenaline, he saw the raw motivation in her eyes that had drawn him there in the first place. His officers had disbanded the other Russians, and the peasant man had fought off anyone stupid enough to try and take the cannons.

Both he and the woman stood there, briefly, eyes locked on each other as time seemed to have momentarily stopped. For one fleeting moment that felt longer than it should have, the raging song of battle seemed to dull in the distance. She looked upon him with a mix of wonder and confusion, her eyes wide. He opened his mouth to speak, to say _something_ , but to his dismay he found his ability to speak had failed him. Doffing his feathered cap at her, his heart in his chest, he reared his horse and turned to head down the hill. She did not break his gaze until he turned away and she went to help the old peasant to his feet. Cavalrymen and scythemen, in the distance, had spurned the Russian invaders and the foreigner’s retreat was sounded. He looked back upon the hilltop, and saw that the woman gazed after him in the distance. The battle had been won, victory had been snatched from the enemy’s grasp. Yet he had failed to say something to the peculiar stranger, who now looked down upon him from the hillock with her comrade. He should’ve said something - anything! - and silently shamed himself for his involuntary muteness. Soon however, his intrusive thoughts were drowned out by the wild cheers of his victorious men, who had fought long and hard for this momentous victory. They had survived. Better yet, he realized as he received the joyous cries of his officers and soldiers, they had embarrassed the Russian army.

The party, thrown in celebration after the battle, had left him curiously lonely. He reveled in their victory along with his aides and generals, feeling joyous and lofty, but he found his eyes wandering across the rooms of the estate. He spoke with what must have been an innumerate amount of gentlemen and ladies, people of esteemed birth who had come for the celebrations, and yet among them and his compatriots he felt lost. He himself was of modest birth - the son of a petty gentry - and even during the American revolution he’d found good company among both his aides and the officers he’d served with. Not one prone to turn his nose up at things, he always felt somewhat out of place among the gentry back home. Now, he felt it more strongly than ever. He was looking for someone - it would be stupid for him to not know _who_ he was looking for - and eventually Julian pulled him aside to a quiet spot to inquire about his noticeably detached behavior. Realizing the source of this, his aide gently suggested that he go and mingle with the officers and soldiers who were celebrating rather raucously outside in the army camp, far enough away that their drunken carousing would not disturb more delicate temperaments. 

With a certain degree of difficulty, Kościuszko departed from the dinner party to his quarters, slipping out of his uniform’s outer layers and opting for his worn peasant coat: the cream colored fabric now stained a light tan from extended use. In front of his mirror, he ran his fingers through his chestnut brown hair, now streaked with grey. Finding that nervosity didn’t suit a grown man like him, he breathed deeply for a few moments before turning out the door and outside towards the main army camp. Already he could hear singing and joyous shouting as he made his way down the secluded path, lit only by the pale lilac light of the moon.

Drunk soldiers laughed and danced with each other - and falling over a good number of times - around the campfires, their tankards flowing with beer and vodka. Shouts of “ _Na zdrowie!_ ” echoed throughout the camp as groups of compatriots drank to the health of their comrades, to the health of the nation, and to - Kosciuszko’s heart warmed at this- the health and fortune of their own brave commander. He chatted and mingled with some soldiers and officers, and had it not been for the free flowing alcohol he guessed that they would’ve figured out who he was sooner. Happy to relax for once among his countrymen, the commander meandered through the innumerable campfires and groups, only stopping briefly to offer congratulations or to share in the communal happiness. He hadn’t spotted her, and he grew weary that he would never find the person in question. About to give up and turn back towards the genteel celebrations a ways away, he turned into a small clearing tucked into a more quiet corner of the campsite.

A small group of people sat around the fire, passing drinks and battle stories as he observed them, unnoticed. The fire burned steadily, thanks to the attention of one individual towards it, who had just added another dry log to the glowing flames. As the diverse group chatted away with amicable gentility, Kościuszko could pick up on one voice over the rest. The woman’s voice was slightly peculiar, her speech marked by the lilt of a foreigner grappling with Polish. Softly chuckling, he sipped from his flask out of sight, remarking on how he himself had struggled with the notoriously lawless English language some years before. She was talking about the battle, and how it had felt she’d go deaf from the thunderous noise of cannonfire. He decided, feeling the liquid courage give him some eagerness, that he ought to sit with these people, and entered the clearing from the darkness. 

The campfire’s orange and golden glow illuminated their faces in the darkness, and as the foreigner jostled the embers he briefly caught a glimpse of those disarming eyes. She did not look up at him with the coquettishness of a gentle lady, but rather her eyes shot up, glinting in the night like steel. Yet her face did not betray a sense of unwelcomeness or aggravation. She smiled, gently, and beckoned him to sit nearby. Only then did she recognize him as he drew near, and surprise dashed across her angular face. He slipped into the conversation with the others almost too easily, as if the alcohol had loosened both their tongues and social boundaries. She kept quiet, but they glanced back and forth at each other nevertheless. All of them chatted amicably, and Kościuszko learned that this woman was a volunteer, who had joined up for the idealistic causes of pursuing freedom and emancipation. She gently deprecated herself intermittently, saying that she was motivated by silly idealism and a hunger for something _more_ than life back home, but Kościuszko found himself drinking her words like wine. A plump older woman, a camp follower no doubt, clapped her on the shoulder and told her that she ought to be proud of her aspirations and achievements, and that “her own sons would blush at her bravery on the field”. He gently congratulated her, and they silently agreed- in unspoken terms- that she would not out him for being their very own commander. Sharing stories and toasts, they talked for a little more until someone called from a distance and the woman jumped to her feet before offering everyone well wishes and a very good night, pausing only briefly to nod respectfully at Kościuszko. She turned away, and before he could protest she was already gone, moved on to answer the beckoning of some other reveler.

The night had ended soon enough, and as Kościuszko stumbled back to his quarters, alcohol slurring his thoughts and speech, he felt his mind run like the course of a river back to that woman at the fire. He was foolishly lovesick, no doubt about it, and as he clambered into his bed he felt like a young man again. Infatuation was a youth’s game, and yet here he was, entranced by some crossdressing, swashbuckling idealogue. His mind swam with heavy thoughts of war and love and the desire of a family - how silly he was to project this onto a woman he barely knew!- and as he felt sleep coming for him he realized his own folly. He had not even asked her for her name. 

Kościuszko’s dreams were vivid that night, rippling between scenes of domesticity where he tended to his gardens, surrounded by his family, and of war where the shrieks and cries of fighting men rang in his ears. Through it all, her face swam briefly before his, with her either in his arms or her lifeless corpse strewn among the wreckage of battle. Around four in the morning, as dawn’s light began to gradually seep into the dark sky, Tadeusz Kościuszko woke up alone again.


	3. June, 1794

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At one point does one stop pursuing something they may never attain?

_June, 1794. Outside Wyszków._

The summer had arrived in Poland, and with it flowers bloomed vibrant hues of orange, pink, yellow, and violet. Poppy fields colored the landscape in a carpet of scarlet, and Kościuszko found himself thinking of the strange woman again, who by now had become the object of his affections. Yet after that night she’d disappeared from him, lost to the rank and file once more. Julian, whose friendship with him had now blurred between the lines of professionality and brotherly intimacy, gently teased him for this when privacy warranted it. Kościuszko found himself admonishing his own outbursts of frustration: how stupid was he, a grown man, to latch onto a woman he barely knew, and entertain some kind of fantasy of them together while he did not even know her name! Whenever this occurred, Julian would adopt a more gentle attitude and reassure him that he wasn’t being silly or juvenile: infatuation was the herald of giddiness and passion, of course he would feel this way. It was natural, and given time, it would pass eventually.

Tadeusz was, for all of his virtues, a hopeless romantic. So it came to much of his irritation that he could not shake the handsome stranger from his mind, her face still marked in his memory as clear as day. To pursue this flight of fancy earlier would have been inopportune. Now, as the insurrection raged on against three opponents, it felt inappropriate. But he could not stop it from tugging on his heart, and it made him weary. 

He saw her, every now and then, catching brief glimpses of her in crowds of armed soldiers or in camp, eating her rationed meals alongside other soldiers. She had managed to befriend the now gazetted captain Jan Milewski, and he saw them around occasionally. They embraced each other like brothers, and talked like brothers too - the unmistakable relief or joy at seeing each other alive at the end of a fight - but he could never quite get her by herself to speak with her. He was the commander of the army, and she, a lowly volunteer: even in a war of equals, it would be strange for him to summon her. Briefly suspecting Milewski to be courting her, Kościuszko attempted to isolate himself from his own men and keep company with his administration, but after seeing Milewski pay considerable attention to a lady of the petty gentry at a ball, thoughts of him courting that mysterious stranger and the subtle jealousy it brought were soothed. The stranger and him made brief eye contact at training drills, announcements, and other events, but she somehow managed to evade him every time. Either duty called her to be elsewhere, or she was deliberately distancing herself from him out of respect. With a heavy heart, Kościuszko quietly realized she was most certainly avoiding him. There were things on his mind he wanted to say, things he  _ should  _ tell her, tell her how he felt, but it seemed that both of them were short on the necessary resources of both time and presence. He sought to focus on more pressing matters in this odd dance of avoidance, because the situation was looking more and more dire. In the mirror of his quarters, Kościuszko realized there were more silver strands in his thick hair than the week before.


	4. September, 1794

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What we do behind closed doors, or out of eyesight.

_September, 1794. Kraków._

The insurrectionists, under his guidance, were convening in the capital to plan for battle. The situation was growing more and more dire as the days turned to weeks, and their victories grew few and far between. Something had to give. Like the sun’s rays beating down on them, in the twilight days of summer, the thoughts of that stranger had not left him. Kościuszko tried hard to forget, to push her into the back of his mind, yet like an unwavering companion the thought of her lingered still. He wanted to see her, to find her, and he realized over and over that if anything was to come out of this month in Kraków, he wanted to get to know her. And maybe then, he would find the answers to the ardent questions that burned within him. He could’ve written her letters by now, they could have corresponded had he gotten her name either from her mouth or from that captain. 

The realization of her avoidance had sunken in well enough by now, and he accepted with a heavy solemnity that their distance was perhaps for the best. Julian gently reminded him that he did not know her well, and it would be unwise to wholeheartedly expect his affections to be returned. It would be for the best if he moved on from it. She was just another combatant, a nameless soldier, lending her arm to a fight she believed in. Yet, he had also been in that same predicament. Amidst planning, organization, and downing countless cups of coffee as he slaved away at strategy with his officers, he found himself lingering on her still.

And just like that, he saw her. During a sleepless night at Wawel Castle, which had been converted to the military’s base of operations, he began to aimlessly walk the now abandoned halls at some ungodly hour. Eyelids heavy from drowsiness, he’d begun to head quietly down to the kitchens where he was to brew his third pot of coffee. He’d been working tirelessly on designing fortifications, for once engrossed in a task he was more than comfortable with. The shapes of the redoubts, barricades and defense lines were straightforward and predictable, the lines and angles leaving nothing to abstract interpretation or presumption. It comforted him, as bizarre as it seemed. Too many things on his mind were unpredictable and shrouded in mystery. Mouth dry from too much of the bitter beverage (he took his coffee black), he considered grabbing a glass of water as well. He meandered down the dark hallway, only illuminated by the faint glow of the candlestick in his hand.

The poor light cast long, strangely warped shadows on the dark wood paneling on each side of him, and he stepped quietly towards the end of the hallway that led to the staircase leading downwards. Suddenly, he heard a shuffling, in front of him yet concealed by the darkness. He could not see who - or what - was before him, yet as his eyes strained in the gloom a shape began to emerge. The shape became a human, and suddenly there she was. The stranger. She’d shambled out of the stairwell leading up from the kitchens, a glass of water clutched in her calloused hand.

They looked at each other, wordlessly again, but no longer did bemusement or shock cross their faces. Admittedly he was surprised to see her, but now a lingering sense of familiarity hung in the air between them. They had played the charade of oblivion between each other, words unspoken, but now they quietly observed one another.

She broke the silence. Rigidly polite, her rudimentary Polish making her almost scholarly, she had asked him how he’d been doing. Kindness was in her eyes, and Kościuszko felt himself relax and be at ease. Expressing concern for her wellbeing, he made light conversation in the hopes to spark some kind of deeper talk, but it felt unnecessary then. He had tried to quash entertaining thoughts of her feeling the same sort of intensity, but then in that moment in the darkness, the unspoken words exchanged between them felt tangible. 

She asked him if he truly meant it when he had spoken of emancipation and egalitarianism those months before, an oddly bold question in a time like this. Yes, he responded softly.  _ I meant every word of it _ . And he meant it now, and there was a new warmth that he detected on her face. He said he had every intention of honoring his promises that he had made that March. Of course, he realized, silently shaming himself. She speaks to me like her superior officer. I want to talk to her like a friend. They exchanged thoughts and observations on the uprising, before they slipped into mutual silence. She looked at him, and he looked at her, with the both of them glancing away periodically as if they’d been afflicted by sudden bashfulness. A light, gentle smile decorated her face, and he quietly relished in seeing her truly at ease.

He asked her for her name. She told him - she was indeed a foreigner - and he made sure to compliment her for her Polish. The woman giggled - she  _ laughed,  _ softly - and by God, it was like music. It echoed quietly down the dark corridor, in a hushed tone barely below a whisper. They chatted, briefly, as if to make up for lost time. Periodically they delved into silence once more, but it seemed to bother neither of them. He stood there, unmoving, and he was struck by how they both seemed to quite enjoy looking at each other. She smiled back, both of them quite aware of how silly they must have looked. Gesturing lightly for him to follow her, she padded lightly down the empty hallway, guided by only his candle and the light of the moon. She turned, opening a small doorway to a miniscule courtyard, and beckoned him outside. The summer night air was slightly humid, warm, and comforting. Crickets chirped nearby, and Kościuszko detected torchbugs flickering amongst the bushes. Like the last time they had met, the moon was in its fullest phase, and like those months ago, the moon bathed everything in a pale, ethereal glow. She spoke more clearly and louder now, unbridled by the respects paid to those sleeping inside. They talked of war, their lives, and what they planned on doing if they survived the coming months, or years. Kościuszko did not entirely let her in on the state of the administration. He didn’t feel it was necessary. He must have sounded rather conceited, describing his own life and how he was dealing with everything going on in the country. But when he looked back at her from trailing off on some tangent about ideals and politics and whatnot he found that she was looking intently at him, her angular features illuminated in a soft blue of the moonlight. Her eyes sparkled, and as he apologized for prattling on about himself - and how he  _ really  _ would just like to sit down and grow cabbages in a simple garden sometimes - she gently waved it away, and chuckled warmly. She spoke of how she too wanted some kind of escape from this war, this fight, if only for a moment. How she was willing to pay the price, to fight for it, tooth and nail, if it meant she could live simply and content with a family to call her own. Recounting how she was an unhappy youth who had grown up in the city, she’d married a sea captain in her own country only for him to drown at sea several months later. She was thirty four, and she had figured she’d wanted a life of her own for once. A pregnant silence had fallen between them, but awkwardness found no home there, for between them was a look of understanding. 

He cleared his throat. It was now or never, he realized, the same budding anticipation he’d felt in March bubbling underneath his amicably calm exterior. He acknowledged how they’d met in bizarre circumstances. Figuring now was the best time to tell her, he told her of how he’d admired her from afar, not quite knowing how to approach her . She was different, she felt different. And he hadn’t felt that sensation in a long time. He told her so, and Kościuszko waited quietly as the silence between them grew heavier.

She appeared to be digesting what he’d been saying. Whether the silence could be attributed to the language barrier, the difference in rank,  _ anything _ , the moments between them seemed to pass at a glacial pace.

The woman responded, beginning that she hadn’t quite known what to make of him, that he was so far off and detached from her own life that it felt strange to have this connection with him. She tried to avoid him - his stomach plummeting as he heard his own suspicions ring true- but it was not for what he had feared. 

She told him she felt the same. Better yet, she explained she had avoided him not out of disturbance or lack of interest, but it was largely because of the same reasons he tried to avoid her. Kościuszko felt as if he'd been struck by lightning, his entire soul electrified. The sense of shock must have been mutual, because the pair of them began to laugh, loudly and without inhibitions. How silly they both felt, in that moment, that they had avoided each other for not knowing how to address their feelings. She told him it was a great weight off of her shoulders. He responded likewise. That night, and the gentle darkness of the outside courtyard, felt like it had been shrouded in an otherworldly lightness. Kościuszko felt like he was floating, adrift on a sea of possibilities and hopes. He’d shoved the idea of something with her away into the back of his mind. Now, the possibility to  _ entertain  _ that fantasy had presented itself. 

They kissed, embraced each other, and sat in that comforting pool of moonlight surrounded by fluttering torchbugs. The night passed without difficulty, and as Kościuszko retired to his own bedchambers, long after he’d bade her goodnight, he had the first restful sleep in a long time.


	5. October, 1794

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The conclusion.

_ October, 1794. Maciejowice. _

To think she would have given up the fight, and her role as a soldier, was folly. Kościuszko realized that even if they’d become engaged she would not drop her arms. He should’ve told her to stay in Kraków. He should’ve forced her to stay her hand. The entirety of the battle, he’d hoped and prayed that she was not among the swathes of insurrectionist soldiers that thronged and clashed around him. There were women fighters, but he could not recognize her among the ones he saw slain on the muddy battlefield. As the bodies piled up and the screams of anger turned to moans of pain, Kościuszko felt that sentiment weigh in his heart like lead. Cannonfire had dulled his hearing, and a constant ringing that buzzed in his ears made it hard to focus. His horse had already been shot out from underneath him - he was on his second steed - and he had been grazed by a few bullets. Fatigue gnawed at his bones, for he was not the young man he’d been in America, and he felt that with every strike against the enemy with his saber and with every hoarse cry of command. 

They were losing. Poninski had promised to relieve the insurrectionists with a force of men, four thousand strong, but they had not arrived. His canonniers and artillery had run out of ammunition after three hours of heavy barrage. The ensuing Russian bayonet charge had slaughtered his men, and the remaining weakened force delved into hand to hand combat. 

Realizing he was an easy target, he’d attempted to outmaneuver the Russians intent on hunting him like a dog on the field, but after each passing moment the men who guarded him had fallen like wheat to the scythe, one by one. So there he was, at muddy Maciejowice, so wholly alone. He watched his friends die, sliced open by blades, impaled on bayonets, or trampled by cavalry charge. This was the end, but when had the beginning of the end begun? Blood soaked his military coat - it was not his own, he realized with a mounting dread - and as he attempted to reload his pistol he was abruptly thrown forward by his second horse being shot out from under him. He didn’t know how many musket balls the poor creature had endured. He didn’t bother figuring it out, because before he knew it Kościuszko was slumped against a small ditch, mud covering his face. Struggling to get to his feet, he heard screaming, the unmistakable sound of something blunt hitting bone, and braced for the searing pain. But the cry of agony was not his own. Blinking mud and blood out of his eyes, a pair of strong hands pulled him up from his prone position and turned him to face their owner. 

It was her. A Russian soldier had attempted to stab him with a bayonet in his moment of vulnerability, but she’d arrived and swung the stock of her musket at his head, splitting his skull. She too was covered in blood and grime, and Kościuszko felt both immense despair and relief for her presence. She told him to run before he could ask why on earth she chose to come, but before they had sprinted a few hundred meters and crossed another ditch in the earth, two Russian dragoons sped up to meet them. She raised her gun, unloaded, and prepared to strike one of them with it like a club. Leaping sideways, she led them to her, away from him. She caught one dragoon’s arm, but as a scarlet stream of blood arced through the air he realized the cavalryman had gotten her first. The woman soldier fell from the impact of colliding with the warhorse, and she slumped backwards, crushed by the hooves of that whinnying beast. A few meters away Kościuszko let out a cry of agony, and in his vulnerability he accepted what was to come. She was gone. Only death, or torture, awaited him at the hands of the tsarina. 

It was better, then, to die by his own hands. Realizing the pistol was still loaded, he pointed it to his temple and squeezed the trigger. It clicked. Heart dropping, he discovered that the hammer was jammed, the pistol’s mechanism soiled with mud from his fall. His last ditch attempt at preserving his own autonomy had failed. Dropping his head into the cold mud, his mouth tasted acrid and metallic, and everything smelled of dark earth.  _ This must be what graves feel like to the dead,  _ he thought, before willing himself to let go of it all. In that moment he felt a searing pain course through his left leg like hellfire, and a sharp blow to his head rendered him unconscious. 

Everything faded into darkness. Whether he would wake up from this horrible nightmare, he did not know.

  
  


It would be one hundred twenty three years before Poland and Lithuania become sovereign states again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The scene at Maciejowice follows history in that Kosciuszko indeed had his horse(s) shot out from under him, and was bayonetted in both the backside and struck in the head. Before capture, he possibly attempted suicide but failed, only to be jailed by Catherine the Great in St. Petersburg until 1796, upon her death.
> 
> PS: If you get the reference the title makes, I freakin' love you


End file.
